Strong Relativity
by shelledone
Summary: Mike Snape was just starting to enjoy life... out of jail... his own flat ... until Uncle Severus collapsed on his doorstep. Now Snape's disappeared, but he's left behind a Malignant Package, a NonExistant Address and a Dire Admonition. Peachy.


Micheal sank into his chair. A long day… too damn long. He leaned forward and pulled off his boots with a sigh of satisfaction. Behind him, the tea-pot simmered eagerly on the stove. When it had boiled, he rose stiffly and poured himself a strong cup of tea, added a dollop of milk, a huge spoonful of sugar and limped back to his chair. A few revivifying sips gave him the strength to lean down and root through his duffel bag. Extra boots. Shirt. Thermos. Something squishy… banana?

His hand closed over something hard, and he lifted the book onto the table. The cover was nearly black, and the pages were yellow with age. It didn't seem too much the worse for it's sojourn in the bag. Taking a sip of tea, he flipped it open at random. The letters were angular, almost impossible to decipher. He squinted at them, and they seemed to skitter away from his eyes. Well. That cleared up one thing at any rate. The book was the real deal. An actual grimoire. Probably protected by a half-dozen nasty spells, but since such spells were set to keep out the wizards, he didn't anticipate any trouble.

He closed it again, and gave it a hard look. The truth was… after all the trouble he had gone to, he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Without any magic of his own, he didn't have much use for it. In fact, now that he held it in his hands, he could wish it was back on the shelves of the used book store where he'd found it. Sure. It was proof. But, what good did that do him? It wouldn't give him back the things he had lost. All it did was to confirm that he was indeed lacking.

Scowling, he shoved it to the edge of the table and crossed his arms over his chest. A few minutes passed. He sipped his tea. When he was done, he stood up to make himself another cup, pointedly not looking at the book. He'd take it back tomorrow. Spend the refund on a good bottle of scotch, and proceed to drink the whole affair out of his brain. Sounded like a good plan. Magic… bah.

He had just settled onto the couch that doubled for his bed, when there was a knock on the door. Scowling, he considered putting on his pants, then thought better of it. Anyone knocking at one in the morning could bloody well deal with his boxers. He strode over to the door and yanked it open.

The room flooded with sickly green light. Involuntarily, he took a step back. A small glow shot into the room and whirled around his head. He watched it, mesmerized. Following it, a tall man, dressed all in black stepped across the threshold. His long black hung over his face. After a moment, he raised his head, and Mike found himself staring into a pair of narrow black eyes, set over a huge, aquiline nose. He grinned. He knew that nose. He saw that nose every morning in the mirror.

"You've got to be my Uncle Severus."

The beady eyes met his dispassionately. Then, slowly, Severus Snape sank to the floor.

After a moment, Mike went up to where he was bent over on the carpet. He was still conscious, and he continued to regard his nephew balefully.

"Close the door," he hissed.

Too startled to protest, Mike rose and closed the door. By the time he did so, his uncle had managed to crawl his way into a sitting position. His head was bowed between his shoulders.

"You look like shit," he offered.

His uncle's head rose slightly. "You are most certainly Augusta's son."

He shrugged. Augusta Snape had not been a large part of his life. Eleven years since he'd last seen her. He'd heard she'd died and was fairly certain that he didn't care. His uncle, on the other hand, was here right now and looked as though he was about to fall asleep, or possibly die, where he sat. Mike looked over at the couch, piled high with a nest of blankets. He looked back down at his uncle.

Resignedly, he walked over and removed a few of the blankets and one pillow. Then he returned to the man slumped on his floor.

He threaded his arm around the bony shoulders. "Better stand up, now, 'fore you fall asleep there. Couch's more comfortable."

Under the fall of greasy hair, he saw the mouth set into a disapproving scowl, but Snape refrained from comment. Slowly, Mike pulled him upward. He was relatively light for such a tall man. Supporting most his weight, he guided the other man to the couch. As he let go, he realized his arm was covered in something sticky.

"You bleeding?" he said slowly.

Snape smiled slightly. "No."

"Ah." He considered his arm. "Better lose that… robe then. Need a shirt?"

A grimace.

"Guess not."

By the time the offending garment was off he'd found a clean shirt for himself, a half empty bottle of cheap rum, and two shot glasses. He sadt down next to the couch, and poured himself a large portion of rum.

"Want one?"

Snape eyed him steadily, opened his mouth to decline and then thought better of it. He nodded a quick affirmative. They drained their shots in silence.

"So," Mike leaned watched his uncle inquisitively, "why'd you come here?"

The wizard stared into his empty glass. The moment dragged on. When he did speak, he did so slowly, weighing each word. "You seem rather… familiar… with the presence of blood."

Mike shrugged. "I've seen it before."

"What… do you do?"

"Construction," he answered promptly.

"And you have always done 'construction'?"

"The rest were just… odd jobs." He poured himself another measure of liquor. "You're some sort of professor, right?"

"Not anymore." The other man regarded his left hand scornfully. "I have... turned in my notice."

"Don't blame you." Mike took yet another swill of rum. "Wi-shard bratsh are probably worse… 'n account of th' fire-ballsh…"

"You're going to finish that I suppose?"

He cocked his head and held the bottle up considering. "Yesh."

"Then I expect you will shortly be incapable of further conversation?"

"Yesh!" Mike grinned and nodded.

"In that case… I am going to sleep."

"G'night!" He flipped off the light and proceeded to make good his word.

Ex-professor Snape was sleeping soundly when Mike got up, cursing his aching head, the alarm, and guests who chose to appear in such rotten condition that he didn't dare consign them to the floor. He didn't stir as his young nephew slammed his way through breakfast and seemed unmoved as his gracious host pulled clothing over his sore body to refrain of a steady stream of off-color comments. The door banged shut behind him, and Snape shifted slightly.

He hadn't moved when Mike returned in the evening, covered in dirt and sweat. His nephew experienced a moment of concern, but his pulse was steady and his brow cool. There was a can of beans which looked like it had been blasted open on the counter, so Mike could assume that he had eaten something.

Mike didn't actually see him awake until the next evening. He had come home after a particularly nasty shift (jack-hammering!) and was determined that this evening, he was going to discuss with his uncle other options for lodging, or at least work out a decent schedule with regards to the couch. Have thought that his uncle would still be sleeping, he was shocked to enter a flat he hardly recognized. The floor had been scoured, the piles of dirty clothing moved to God knows where. There was not an empty whisky bottle to be seen. He could see out of the windows, which had been impossible even when he had first moved in. With some trepidation, he approached the kitchen.

His uncle was sitting at the table. The tiles underneath his bare feet shone. Mike glared at him.

"What did you do?"

"You disapprove?" the other man asked him mildly.

"It's clean." Said Mike wretchedly. "It's never been clean."

"Unsurprising. No doubt you are quite accustomed. I, however, have no intention of staying in a place so uniformly foul…"

"Who asked you to stay anyway?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Bit univited, aren't you?"

"My dear nephew," Snape rose to his full height. His eyes seemed to glow, and Mike could feel his stomach drop, "I'm afraid I must not leave. Yet."

Despite the menace, Mike couldn't help but laugh. And once he'd started, he couldn't stop. Snape folded himself back into his chair and watched the younger man's convulsions with something approaching disgust.

"Nowhere else to go, eh? Old lady kicked you out right! Been sleeping around!" He braced himself on the table. "Nono. Bet yer on the run, right? Po-lice gonna come round?"

"I hope not."

The matter-of-fact tone cut through his mirth. "What'd you do?"

"That doesn't concern you." Snape stood up. "There is soup on the stove. From a can, sadly, and I have taken the liberty of baking bread."

"Baking… bread?"

"I find myself with a great deal of energy, and very little to do."

"You could go home.." the kitchen did smell like fresh baked goods, but Mike was coming to the uncomfortable conclusion that someone had actually polished the cabinents. He hadn't actually known they were wood.

"I will be gone soon enough. But, for now, you may as well resign yourself to the situation. I am going to take a shower." With that he stood and strode towards the bathroom with the look of someone who is about tackle a bewildering but urgent problem. Mike watched him go, dismayed. He was slightly gratified when a hiss came from the bathroom, presumably caused by explorations with the hot water valve, but it wasn't much of a victory. His stomach growled. The bread was warm he'd bet, and maybe dinner would give him enough energy to evict his new roommate. He grabbed a bowl and settled down to eat.

They passed the evening in relative quiet. Mike ventured a few queries about Snape's circumstances, but they yielded nothing but put-upon scowls, icy glares, and in one case, a threateningly lowered book. If Snape was at all interested in his nephew's life, he didn't mention it. Of course, though Mike blackly, the old bastard probably had it all figured, having snooped through everything he owned during the cleaning spree. Eventually, Mike had given up any pretence of friendliness and had opened up a new bottle of rum to help beguile the time. Snape said nothing. Finally, he had drunken himself into enough of a stupor that another night on the floor didn't seem to terrible. He stood up, wavered over to his blankets, and passed out.

The lights in the apartment stayed on long into the night.

He woke the next morning with his head spinning. Light filtered in through the windows, and he winced away from it. Groggily, he reached for his clock. 11:00. He felt a frisson of fear… late… and he couldn't afford to lose this job. It had been hard enough to get in the first place. Panicked, he sat bold upright and wished he hadn't. And then it struck him that today was a Saturday. Relief flooded through his veins, until his rapidly clearing head reminded him that Saturday meant a whole day in the company of Uncle Snape. He was sorely tempted to lay back down.

With a dire look at the empty couch, he rose to his feet. The bedclothes lay neatly on the cushions, reprehensibly folded. He rolled his eyes. Just then a familiar scent wafted past his nose. Coffee. His disgust faded away. He'd forgive just about anything for a cup of coffee right now… murder… even intolerable neatness. Automatically, he shambled towards the kitchen.

It was empty. On the counter, the percolater was half-full of steaming liquid. He poured himself a cup—black, the thought of cream made his stomach turn. The apartment was silent. He blinked, wondering if Snape had gone out. Scanning the room, he noticed a large sack sitting on the table. It was black silk, and had been stitched with a variety of symbols in red thread. There was an ominous gleam to the fabric. A small scrap of paper had been pinned to the fabric. Warily, he approached the table.

The message was picked out in small, round letters.

"My dear nephew. Unfortunately, I must ask you to deliver this to the address I have placed at the bottom of this note. I do not expect that you will encounter any difficulties, but caution you to remain wary, and to discharge this duty as quickly as possible. You will most likely not be rewarded for doing so (the recipients being, to my mind, rather ungrateful), but if you fail, you will most likely die rather unpleasantly. Thus, I suggest you finish the coffee I have brewed for you, and set about locating-

12 Grimmauld Place

Outer Borough, London

With any luck, you will not see me again.

Severus Snape"

Mike set the note down carefully. He took a sip of his coffee, and stared at the bag. It gleamed greasily in the morning light. The symbols sown onto the outside looked like sigils. He peered at them. Too many years had passed since he'd last seen any… but he was fairly sure that nasty curvy one was for warding. And containment. The little triangle was "dark", but the rest he didn't understand. They looked sinister enough, however, and he could well believe that he never wanted to see what was in the bag. He gulped down his coffee, which burned against his abused throat.

Better, he decided, to get it out of the house as soon as possible. Best to deliver it too, for magical artifacts are not so easily discarded, he remembered, and have the uncomfortable habit of returning to those who have thrown them away. Usually leaving a trail of suffering in their wake. He picked up the note and squinted at it.

Grimmauld place? It didn't sound familiar, but he was sure it must be a wizarding address. Which presented it's own problems. There were a few entrances to the wizarding world in London, but he didn't know where they were. And it was possible he couldn't cross them, being a squib. Nor did he particularly want to return to the world which he'd run from so many years ago. London could be a dangerous, nasty place… but at least no mugger would turn him into a frog in the process of robbing him. And, he liked to think, he was still a little bit dangerous himself. But, once he crossed back, he'd be just as weak as he'd always been.

He slammed the cup down on the table.

"Screw you, you magical son of a bitch! Come here… think I'm just gonna do what you say. Yeah?" he hissed. "Think I give a shit about your damn bag! I oughta flush it down the damn…"

The bag had started to glow. He swallowed. The sigils were giving off a slight heat. It twitched. Carefully, he stepped back. As his anger cooled, the bag stilled. Once he was sure that it wasn't going to move in his absence, he rushed back into the other room, and began to pull on his clothes. When he had done so, he grabbed the bag, the address and the keys to his motorcycle. Mike Snape would be the first man to say that he wasn't so intelligent, but he had a certain sense of timing which had kept him out of a great deal of trouble in the past. And it was telling him now that it was time to go home. Right now.


End file.
